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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26135455">Parallels</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/2queer4here/pseuds/2queer4here'>2queer4here</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The 100 (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anger, Bottom Bellamy Blake, Canon-Typical Violence, Hanging, M/M, Non explicit rape, Rape, Revenge, Strangulation, Top John Murphy (The 100), Trauma, Violence, mentions of past trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:02:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,172</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26135455</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/2queer4here/pseuds/2queer4here</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Picasso himself couldn’t have painted a prettier picture.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bellamy Blake/John Murphy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. righteous fury</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It felt good, it felt right, it felt like vindication of the most righteous kind.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A hysterical laugh bubbled up from his chest and Murphy did little to muffle it. Under him, beneath him, Bellamy squirmed harder, twisting and bucking, throwing all of his weight around but still it wasn’t enough. Murphy kept his hands firm around his throat digging his thumbs into the smooth skin sharply. Tears streaked down Bellamy’s face and his gasping hiccuping cries threatened to displace Murphy’s hold on him. There was something so erotic, intimate, about watching him lose control over his body and become more desperate, feral even. Just like he had at his own hanging. Bellamy’s nerve bitten nails scrambled for purchase against Murphy’s forearms, gouging deep red tracks into his skin.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It hurt, but no pain could ever compare to being hung thus Murphy is unmoved. Bellamy wriggled wildly trying to shake Murphy; his panicked brown eyes overcome by fat tears and his throat vibrating with half formed noises and whines. The crying brought mucus with it, snot trailing out of Bellamy’s nose, spittle dribbling out from between his fat, puffy lips. It’s disgusting and wonderful, like a spaceman without his helmet. Under his own heartbeat pumping away in his thumbs Murphy can feel Bellamy’s heart rate slow. His lips start to tinge blue and his face is red from crying and exertion. Picasso himself couldn’t have painted a prettier picture.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Bellamy’s eyes were dazed and his struggling lost the momentum it had before. Watching him Murphy felt sick remembering how he had felt in that position being hanged; but another, larger, part of him feels the past being righted and his dick fattening in his jeans. Badass Bellamy at his mercy. He had total control over his life, could snuff him out of existence in a few minutes if he chose to do so. Not so big after all. Bellamy looked up into his eyes like he was the most important thing in the world, his full undivided attention that was so often reserved for Octavia or his fuck buddies, all on John Murphy.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s wrong Bell? Giving up so soon?” He taunted. As good as it was putting him in his place Murphy was still angry about his own violation. Being hanged was the worst pain he had ever known. He remembered feeling desperate, shocked, fearful all while a mob watched him, his weight becoming his enemy as the rope dug so tightly against his throat he was sure his neck would snap.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Because of Bellamy. Because of that bitch little girl. Because of Clarke. She would be next.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. initial struggle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>If Murphy was a real man he wouldn’t have snuck up on him, which was the only reason he was able to overpower Bellamy. Had it not been a surprise attack- Murphy would have gotten his ass handed to him. Again. But it was and he didn’t and so Bellamy was trapped. A pathetic mouse being toyed with by an irate house cat, angry at being declawed. Murphy had sneaked up on him after his nightly shower. The warm water had relaxed Bellamy’s muscles and his mind enough to be pilant, easy, and Murphy was all too eager to force him to the ground.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was pretty sure he had a cut on the back of his head from how hard it knocked against the floor during his take down, and in the ensuing scuffle he gained more injuries though none were as severe as the strangulation he was still fighting against. Murphy was a mean son of a bitch, his hands unwaivering wrapped around Bellamy’s throat like they had a right to be there. There was a certain sickness in his eyes, the way they lit up with unbridled curiosity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like strangling him was some kind of science project and not a terrible act of violence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The anger from knowing Murphy didn’t give a damn about right or wrong, had proved so long ago, kept Bellamy fighting even with the persistent pain around his throat, even with his vision blurring and fading out. When it became clear that Murphy couldn’t be swayed he tried to speak out, tried to beg or plead, anything to get a full breath but it was useless. Murphy had already made up his mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bellamy was going to die.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. total destruction</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They stared at each other; Murphy’s eyes full of hate and Bellamy’s doe eyes glossy and devouted to keeping John in his line of sight, the little he had left of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuckin’ slut.” Murphy said and his hands shook as he undid his belt, his zipper next, the metal ‘zzz’ the loudest sound in the world. He had to close his eyes and pump his meat, thinking of the girls around camp he used to chase after before-. Clarke, bitch. Octavia. He had to, he wasn’t like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But neither was Bell, which would make his destruction even sweeter, even greater. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bellamy tried to sit up but Murphy slammed his head back down onto the ground and Bellamy kept it down, head smarting and breath knocked out of him again. Still he tries to reason with his once friend: “Murphy,” His lips are chapped and his tongue swipes over them having the adverse effect of Murphy following the movement closey with his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t do this.” His head explodes with pain from the right hook John throws him. At this point Bellamy is getting delirious with pain and fear and he cries openly. His voice was barely above a whisper, hoarse and shot to hell. He pushes past the pain and pleads for his life to be spared and for peace, coughing a lot which brings more pain to his deeply sore throat and the bruises covering it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s the bruises that Murphy focuses on when he brutalizes him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Murphy pushes in dry, the spit he used to work his cock with already dried up by the time he is hard enough to take the last of Bellamy’s dignity from him. Bellamy tries to scream, but his voice cracks and his mouth is left open without sound. Murphy covers it with his hand anyway. His eyes are searing like someone tossed coals from a fire into them and his tears do nothing to cool them. Murphy’s other hand pushes his head up so his neck is one long line, so he doesn’t have to face what he’s doing, so he can stare right at the mark his hands left behind. So he can fixate on the way tanned skin has turned into sickly night blue dotted with green and yellow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Is this what his own neck had looked like the night he almost died? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He cums without warning inside of Bellamy and keeps fucking into him, spreading his semen around until it leaks out of his hole despite his dick plugging it. Bellamy is the most beautiful and hideous thing he’s seen since they got sent to Earth.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he’s done he spits: “There’s your fucking peace.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
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